A lean man with long, grey hair leant against the wall. His face looked down at the coble stones beneath his feet, and puffs of smoke flew from his pipe. The hooded cloak was clasped around his neck with a dull broach. He hated looking up, all he saw was burned buildings and ash littering the streets. It had been this way for as long as he could remember.

The orcs had come, with the horrid creban leading the way, they threatened to engulf the last defence of the free people before Bree. After days of fighting, the orcs had taken the Trestlespan and had advanced into Trestlebridge itself. He could still remember the clashing of blade upon blade and the screams of battle. No one knew why the orcs had come. There were rumours of evil rising again in the east, could this be true? As the orcs gained inch by inch, foot by foot into the city, they destroyed all they could lay their hands on. They had used some magical fire to destroy the majority of Trestlebridge. No one could put it out, it continued to burn and throw smog into the air. Everyone's morale was low, and their runners that had been sent for help had not yet returned.